


Pale blue eyes

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, Murder Mystery, Other, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Also, he looks like Ezra's dreams, he's beautiful, so much so that it should be illegal, it should be forbidden, it is forbidden by some, by Michael for that matter. Ezra touches his waist because he can feel those long legs around him, he can feel the movement of those swaying hips, he'd sell his soul to anyone willing to buy for the sight of that sharp face twisted into a smile.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Michael (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 65





	1. Cripple, bastard, broken thing

_ (A bustling, cosy and not that noisy cafe. It's dark outside and judging by the howls of the wind that slip into the endless chatter inside, the evening is rather unpleasant. People in the cafe seem joyous and definitely enjoy their food and drinks. A lovely middle-aged man with white hair and lively blue eyes is walking between the tables. Everyone is greeting him and is met with a bright smile. Maybe, the man is not conventionally handsome, but his soft stature, broad round shoulders and the old-fashioned clothes in pastel colours, his smile, his gait… in short, everything about the man screams that he's the kindest, gentlest person one would ever meet. This is the owner of the cafe, Israel Fell who is mostly referred to as Ezra which kind of kills the whole wrestling-with-G-d meaning of his name, but he does help everyone who asks for help and a lot of people do. As he is walking and smiling, a black-cladded arm touches his elbow and he swiftly turns around to face a pale person with messy black hair and dressed in a three piece suit. They smile, and it's not a pleasant smile, rather it's a smile of someone who has heard rumours that people do that sometimes but doesn't see any need other than the custom to twist one's features into such a knot.) _

EZRA: Bea! So good to see you. _ (Bea somewhat softens and gestures to an empty chair in front of them, which Israel takes immediately.) _ I do hope you are enjoying your meal. _ (Bea's plate is as full as it was when it arrived to their table from the kitchen.) _

BEA: You know, that I don't come for the food, Ezra, although of course it's exquisite. I'll take it to Gabriel, as usual.

EZRA: Didn't know he returned. Tired and capricious per usual, I hope?

_ (Bea's face softens significantly, they are a secret sap.) _

BEA: Of course. Gabriel at his most obnoxious, just like I prefer him… I need a favour, Ezra. Of course, the best tickets to the festival will be available.

_ (Ezra laughs. It's the loveliest sound one can have the good fortune to hear.) _

EZRA: I thought I get them just by the virtue of my cranberry sauce.

BEA: Right. So… I don't know how to bribe you, but you'll want to help, you always do.

EZRA: What's wrong? 

BEA: Satan, you are so impossibly soft and I can't understand how you can… Doesn't matter. Anyway, I have a student… rather, I had a student, Anthony Crowley. He… do you like hands?

EZRA: What do you mean?

BEA: Hands. Do you like them?

EZRA: I'm not sure I follow.

BEA: Right… so… the hands you'd like to have on you? The hands… like… shit. Not a poet.

EZRA: I've noticed.

BEA: Yes, very funny. In short, Crowley has… had the hands of G-d, and many a human would like to have those hands on them, but mostly it's… it was his cello. Anathema Device is his personal friend, made a cello for him. Anyway, so… Er… See, ehm, his roommate, a very talented tenor… Well, see, Crowley is my student, I mean was, so he's a composer… and… it's very difficult to talk about it. So, in short, his roommate Hastur, he got very upset that Crowley wrote music for someone else so he stuffed Crowley's pockets with broken glass, and… well… he still has all ten fingers, but ehm… it didn't heal well. Crowley left the university, and I saw you're looking for a waiter… He will also need a room."

EZRA: Sure. There are several small flats I give to my employees.

BEA: Give?

EZRA: Sure. I own the building, it's big, I had it rebuilt to make accomodations for my co-workers. What, you think I have to make money off them, too?

BEA: Michael is a bitch, and no, I'm not sorry. You could have it so much better, Ezra.

EZRA: I'm old, fat, soft and…

BEA: And this is what Michael tells you. Doesn't matter. Please, take Crowley in. Maybe in good time he'll accept he still is Mozart the composer, even though he can't be Mozart the musician anymore… Your presence has an… ineffable effect.

EZRA: So very kind of you, my dear, I'll talk to Michael.

BEA: No, Ezra, Michael will never hire Crowley. You haven't seen his hands, Michael would never hire someone with such hands.

***

_ (A tall, gaunt man is standing in front of Ezra. He's carrying a duffle bag and behind his back, cello case. He's obviously uncomfortable in his body, with the number of his limbs, with his long, beautiful hands covered in badly healed scars and missing more than a few nails. His red hair is long and messy. He's wearing sunglasses, round and viciously expensive. Also, he's dressed in black from neck to toe. His hair is the only speck of colour in his demeanour.) _

EZRA: This… You'll have to rearrange… this…

_ (Ezra gestures at the man's hair.) _

CROWLEY: This? My hair? Yes, sure. Maybe gloves too.

_ (Crowley's hands are indeed beautiful, and Ezra is of those people who would see beauty anywhere and in anyone, but any casual spectator wouldn't be able to ignore Crowley's scars, the way the skin tightens around his muscles, the way his fingers seem to be imprisoned within badly healed skin.) _

EZRA: It's alright, my dear. No worries. Really. Whatever suits you best.

***

Thought it all would be drama? The problem with drama is that you need to imagine people saying it all, and as of the moment, there was nothing more to say. Israel took Crowley to his flat. 

Israel Fell owned a tall, at least for Tadfield, building that stood over the ravine that had been considered the worst place in town, but then again, it had Israel's house over it, and yes, it was a stinking pit, and somewhere on its bottom there was a filthy cave, but more about it later… 

Crowley entered his flat, looked around and turned around to face his employer.

"Thank you, Mr Fell."

"Israel. I mean, Ezra… Whatever. You're welcome, my dear."

The flat was a small studio, in fact, and it was furnished according to Ezra's taste that put comfort over style, so it was very comfortable and very… offensive to one's sense of style, and Crowley had an acute sense of style. He even winced there for a moment. 

"Your uniform is on your bed, and I'm sorry about the view…"

Crowley sauntered over to the window and looked out. "Oh, the pit. Alright." He shrugged.

***

_ (Michael is a strict, severe woman. She'd smite you on sight for anything she'd presume to be out of decorum. She's a bit untidy herself, but that's only because she's a servant to the greater good, which is Ezra's cafe. She wouldn't let all those poor students in. She wouldn't allow any queer people in. She wouldn't allow those two young women exchanging gentle kisses in a quiet corner. But Ezra, stupid, soft Ezra allows it, and she welcomes him in her flat, because Ezra… Every human wants an Ezra in their life, someone kind and caring. An angel. When Israel approaches her, she straightens up more than usual. She speaks dismissively.) _

MICHAEL: What were you thinking? Have you seen his hands?

EZRA: I was asked to hire him. He can wear gloves.

_ (Also, he looks like Ezra's dreams, he's beautiful, so much so that it should be illegal, it should be forbidden, it is forbidden by some, by Michael for that matter. Ezra touches his waist because he can feel those long legs around him, he can feel the movement of those swaying hips, he'd sell his soul to anyone willing to buy for the sight of that sharp face twisted into a smile.) _

MICHAEL: You don't care about this place.

EZRA: I own it, Michael.

MICHAEL: Still, you couldn't care less. Hiring a cripple…

_ (Anyone with eyes that do more than see could see that Ezra is about to blow up with anger and frustration. Michael has eyes for sight alone, she despises everything Ezra is and yearns for him so much.) _

EZRA: He's not a cripple! He had… an unfortunate accident, he needs a job and a place to stay.

MICHAEL: And you are here to help every unfortunate soul, of course.

***

Michael is Ezra's manager. Nobody can remember when she came to Tadfield or began to work at the cafe. Ezra can't remember how he ended up in her bed, but he's been there for years now.

Speaking of years. 

Deep in the ravine, in the stinking pit behind Ezra's building there is a cave. It's the dirtiest, filthiest, the most disgusting place you can imagine. An old man by the name of Shadwell lives there. He's been living there for so long nobody remembers if he ever had a name other than Shadwell or what he used to do. He's old, he's scary, he's a homophobe, he's an anti-Semite, anti-Muslim, he's every prejudice incarnate. 

Israel Fell, a gay Jew, the most open-minded man to have walked the Earth, the owner of the most popular and welcoming cafe in Tadfield (and the world), a remarkable cook and an angel feeds him. Every day at dawn, he takes a silver tray full of the freshest pastries, roasted beef and vegetables with a side of his trademark cranberry sauce and a thermos with the best Earl Grey tea, walks down into the ravine to leave the breakfast of everyone's dreams by the mouth of the cave and every afternoon Shadwell brings the tray and the dishes and the thermos back to the cafe. Shadwell curses Israel Fell all the way, screams at every patron of the cafe, promises hell to every person he meets, grows pale under the gaze of those pale blue eyes and leaves. 

Under that pale blue gaze nobody dares say a word about Shadwell. Michael does, and she has a few words about him, but she shuts herself up when she meets that gaze.

Israel is away to visit his mother when Shadwell comes by the cafe in the morning demanding his food. Waiters sniff and turn away. Crowley takes the tray the cook prepared and hands it to the old man with a smile. Shadwell curses him and his kin, but Crowley keeps pushing the tray into his hands until it's accepted. 

Israel Fell comes back and learns about it. He breaks up with Michael that same day and spends his nights listening…

He listens - his walls shouldn't allow it but they do, because Bea's question about the hands was so right, so on the nose - how Crowley's broken, badly healed hands torture his cello and try to pry out of the instrument the perfect sound, the right note. 

He hears it for the first time that same night when Crowley moved into his flat, Michael's head flat and unwelcome on his shoulder. The sounds take a form of a demon sitting on Ezra's feet and whispering, "Hey, you used to be more complex than water, subtler than sugar, you used to be unwilling to accept intimacy like that, like no intimacy at all… you used to be, used to be, to be, be. Or not to be?"


	2. Want, bad, mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally charged cello playing

Days go by, no, they sway by, saunter by, the hips of the afternoons wrapped in a pristinely white apron (Crowley keeps it so clean, Michael would have praised him, but she praises no one), the hair of the evenings tied up in a half bun, the torso of the dark winter mornings of black shirts. Crowley is good, unconventionally so, since he's not overly polite, he never takes his sunglasses off and he has a habit of spending too much time (according to Michael) talking to his many acquaintances from the university, sometimes he's so bold he sits down and looks through their music, silently making notes as his audience stops breathing. He wears gloves all the time. He's liked a lot without any effort, because he doesn't see his active goodness as an effort, doesn't think of editing someone's music as a favour, serves enamoured couples as if he were invisible and knows everyone's favourite food after one week. He also possesses a peculiar talent of just knowing what people want and when one evening Ezra sees him carrying a blueberry pie to someone who as Ezra has seen didn't make an order, and asks Crowley about it, he shrugs and says that "well, they look like blueberry pie to me". They indeed enjoy their blueberry pie, they immediately look happier and they make eyes at Crowley, which angers Ezra to no end. 

Anger is a very new feeling for Ezra, he hasn't ever experienced it before, and Crowley notices it. 

"Who angered you, Israel?" He asks. 

Before Ezra can stop himself, he answers, "They make eyes at you."

Crowley looks at the person. Shrugs. "They do? Too bad for them, I prefer verbal flirting. Want me to check them out? See if they are worth the effort?"

"Whatever suits you. I wouldn't recommend flirting during your shift, though." Ezra moves to leave but is stopped by a rather strange sight - the corners of Crowley's mouth twitch a bit into something that Ezra prefers to call a "kiss-smile" because he can feel that twitching as something warm and wet under his navel and between his legs.

"I wouldn't recommend it either, you know." Crowley shakes his head, just a tiny movement, something reproachful and sardonic. Ezra walks away backwards and right into Michael, who looks at him with both displeasure and yearning. He's so bright, his angry eyes are much bluer than usual, and she suddenly touches his cheek, blushing. 

***

_ (Crowley's smoking. He's smoking so much he's barely visible. The whole room behind him is barely visible as well. He's sitting on the windowsill, one leg hanging out of the window and the other, slightly bent at the knee, on the sill. Something catches his eye, for once uncovered. He has yellow eyes with mismatched pupils and he's been crying.  _

_ What has caught his eye is a bright light spot of a human down in the pit.) _

CROWLEY: What the hell are you doing there at that hour?

_ (Maybe he intended just to think that, maybe he wanted to whisper it but in fact he says it out loud and loud enough for Ezra to stop in his tracks and look up. Crowley curses under his breath and lazily waves.) _

EZRA: Can't sleep, my dear?

_ (The way Crowley shudders makes one think that the wilting ivy covering the wall is actually made of electric cables.) _

CROWLEY: Didn't try, to be honest. What are you doing down there?

EZRA: Shadwell was coughing most miserably this afternoon so I went down to sneak him some tea.

CROWLEY: Sneak?

EZRA: Well, most people disapprove of my… affiliation with him.

CROWLEY: No, most people think you are an angel and are very jealous of Shadwell.

EZRA: Jealous of an old, lonely, homeless man? You must be mistaken, my dear.

CROWLEY: Nah, I'm not. 

EZRA: So, do you want me to bring you some tea?

_ (Crowley almost falls down.) _

EZRA: As it happens, I'm very lucky you weren't sleeping. I really don't want to wake anyone up with my sneaking back in. Dare I use your window to get back?"

***

Ezra is soft, but Crowley is no fool, unlike most of the people. He knows that a man named Israel is strong, so he's not that surprised as he's watching Ezra climb up the wall, and judging by Ezra's movements, it's not the first time he's doing it.

"Well, nevermind the tea, angel, anyone whose window you storm should be by far the luckiest bastard."

"So sorry about that. Really didn't want to wake anyone up. You people work hard enough. So… should I bring that tea?"

"I have whiskey. Up to a challenge?"

***

Someone must have bought Ezra's soul, because at the mention of a challenge Crowley's lips twitched a bit more and there was a smile to dim any light and disturb the functioning of Ezra's lungs and heart. 

***

"I think I'm up to the challenge, my dear."

"Thought so."

Crowley brought a bottle of Talisker and two tumblers. 

"I must say I could never rise to your level of order," said Ezra who was busy looking at Crowley's shelves organised chronologically and alphabetically.

"It's called OCD, angel. I also have to fight urges to fix Michael's hair or your bow tie."

Ezra's hand flew to his throat to adjust his bow tie.

"Also, your love for tartan is a torture."

"Oh my poor dear. I'm going to wear more tartan from this moment on."

"Such a bastard, angel, such a wonderful bastard."

***

Ezra's soul must have been bought by several demons, apparently by mistake, because at that Crowley laughed, a glorious guttural sound of joy and pleasure, as if weakened with moans and groans and pleas.

***

_ (They are sloshed. Ezra is sloshed on Crowley's bed and Crowley is sloshed on an old sofa.) _

EZRA: May I ask about your injury?

CROWLEY: Sure thing, angel. So, I had this roommate, Hastur. He's a good singer, I love his voice, and he's… he got used to the fact that if I write something to be sung, he's the one to sing it. Hastur is a diva, you see, and when I wrote some songs for Gabriel, whose baritone is to die for, as you know, Hastur got angry and put some broken glass in my pockets. I have an unfortunate custom of stuffing my hands into my pockets, and I did it that day… it didn't seem that bad at first. I was mad of course, and Hastur was frightened by the amount of blood. He wanted… he has a stupid sense of humour, a penchant for bad jokes, and it was just another one of them. By the time I saw it wasn't getting any better, it was all pus and infection and pain. By the time I saw the doctor, well… it could have never healed properly. Hastur left the university, he's punished enough. I'm punished enough as well.

EZRA: For what, you gorgeous, beautiful idiot? For having a jealous roommate?

CROWLEY: For spoiling him, for being… me. For being arrogant and foolish.

EZRA: My sweet, darling boy, this is an unfortunate accident, not a punishment.

CROWLEY: Yeah, sometimes I look at you, you fucking angelic bastard, and think it was a reward… But then I touch my cello, my beautiful Joseph, and I see it was a punishment. King Lear said something about us being flies and gods plucking out our wings for fun.

EZRA: I'm too drunk to remember the quote, but I know what you mean.

***

Ezra leaves Crowley's flat at dawn and in the morning he doesn't remember much. He hopes he hasn't made a fool of himself, didn't let it slip how much he wants Crowley's legs around his waist, or how much he loves Crowley's smile. The experience taught him he shouldn't rely on his inner feelings, that he's fat, old and soft and has been so forever. The experience taught him he had to settle for people like Michael, who did him a favour, performed an act of charity by lying down with him. 

***

Crowley's disfigured fingers trace the indent Ezra left on his bed, he tries playing his cello, and the sound hurts him, makes him angry… but the indent makes him tender. He kisses it. He pushes his face down into it.

***

As days sway and swing by, white apron, red hair, black shirt, broken music, the festival arrives, and with the festival, a lot of people. It happens every year, but somehow there are more this year, and so much so that Ezra can't catch a breath, can't use those tickets Bea saves for him every year. 

He manages to run away one evening, and what an evening that is - the sky is orange and pink, the air is heavy with the upcoming rain, the clouds are straight from Raphael's brush. Ezra is so excited he doesn't pay much attention to anything to Michael's distaste and bitter yearning.

_ (This is where the drama comes in, because Michael never says anything like "Ezra, darling, I yearn for you", even to herself, because everything she's been taught is telling her that Ezra is an abomination, Ezra is too soft, Ezra is too kind, yet Ezra is the closest Michael's ever got to the divinity, and she can feel it, she moves with it, she breathes it, and she's miserable because Ezra doesn't come to her bed anymore, doesn't kiss her, doesn't feel any fear anymore as he turns his pale blue eyes to that lanky boy Mozart, doesn't shy away from winking at the young man, who wiggles his eyebrows and sways his hips and of all the problems he has, being gay isn't one of them. Everyone is gay for Ezra, everyone wants Ezra.) _

Ezra is looking at the stage from afar. Bea is conducting, and the music is heavy as the air between lovers, the music is all-consuming, it's forgiving and accepting, it's a call, an ancient, primary call to be as one is, to love as one does, it's divine in its acceptance and longing, it stretches its bow-arms into the evening, it pushes its oboe-air down Ezra's throat, it sticks its heavy bassoon-tongue into Ezra's mouth and promises that everything is going to be just fine, that it's alright, it's more than alright, it's joyous to be alive, to have a body and four limbs, to have those magnificent orifices and members made for love. It promises Ezra seven mischievous children, a happy marriage, a life full of love and tenderness. It brushes away Shadwell and Michael, it brushes away every human misconception about love and life and everything. Seven mischievous children, bright-eyed, red-haired, long-fingered, round-shouldered.

Crowley touches Ezra's back, a swift, casual, vaguely possessive gesture.

"Michael asked me to tell you you're needed back at the cafe."

"Yes, be right back… do you know this music?"

Crowley shrugs, curls into himself like a startled snail, looks away.

"I do. It's "Ten dances". The sixth of them, to be precise."

"Yours…"

"Mine." He shrugs again, this beautiful boy, the father of those seven mischievous children, the love, the breath, the joy of Ezra's life. 

A young blond man comes rushing. He grabs Crowley's hands and he doesn't accept any "No, Lux, I can't," he doesn't even listen, he doesn't look at Ezra, old, soft and kind, as he's dragging Crowley away to dance with him, and what's worse, Ezra has seen each and every movement of those hips, of those shoulders, of that fiery head, has seen them every day for months, but now there's that music added to it, and those movements are put into the right order, and the white, ridiculous white apron is flying around Crowley's hips and there is a smirk on his lips, and the whole moment is so much more than just some secret of immortality or some other nonsense, it's the moment Ezra's slumbering soul is awakened and wanting. No smudge, no spot in the air, no dark colours in the sky, no prejudice, no Shadwell, no Michael, nothing, just that young lanky red-haired man in the arms of a stunning young friend of his, dancing. And who would have thought that swaying one's leg between one's partner's legs is something so naughty and sexy and masterful and choreographically staged?.. Actually, anyone would have thought that, specifically Crowley and Lux and Bea conducting and Gabriel smiling proudly, but not the aging cook lost for breath and words and answers as he's watching it. 

***

As it happens, a waiter is sick, so Ezra is knocking on Crowley's door to ask if he can replace the sick waiter. Crowley opens the door. He's disheveled, his hair messy, his bed behind him undone, he's barely dressed, his pyjama shirt unbuttoned, revealing his lean body, auburn hair down his navel and on his chest. He's without his sunglasses, and perhaps he can barely see a thing. Ezra swallows, bile, bitterness, self-loathing, self-denial, and explains the situation.

Crowley nods. His eyes travel down Ezra's body and stop at his hand.

"I could use a hand," he says. Ezra offers it. Crowley ignores it and walks back into his flat gesturing at Ezra to follow, and Ezra, he can't see clearly, or be fully responsible for his body, but he follows, he's sat on an incredibly uncomfortable chair, he's handed a cello, and suddenly, Crowley is sitting behind him, they are pressed together, neck to chest to waist, and Crowley takes Ezra's hand, numb and pliant and uses it on the cello's neck, as the cello's shoulder is pressed into Ezra's belly, he's using Ezra's whole body as an extension of his own.

His wide open eyes look at Ezra, and Crowley smiles, a soft, sensual smile.

"You can't laugh at me, my dear, this is the first time I'm playing a cello."

"No… No, I'm not laughing at you, you bastard… good lord, what wouldn't I give for your hand?"

Then Crowley is standing, getting dressed, shoulders, back, arms naked then clothed, apron around his hips, sunglasses on his face.

"Shall we?" He asks.

Ezra is still holding the cello, but he lets it rest on the chair and leaves the room. Crowley is following, but Ezra doesn't dare to look back, to check if he's following. He's an aging cook, and Crowley is a young, beautiful musician who only needs Ezra to possess him, not even his whole body, just a hand, to touch the neck of his cello, nothing else, and yet nothing else matters.


	3. Eine kleine Nachtmusik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nothing happens here yeah.  
But some more emotionally charged cello playing.

_ (Crowley is standing if front of Ezra's door. He has a bottle of Talisker in one hand and gently holds the neck of his cello in the other. Somewhere in his fingers the bow is stuck. It apparently occurs to him that he can't really knock without dropping something. He might knock with the bottle holding hand but it might break the bottle or make the knock sound drunker. Besides Crowley has taken a couple of generous swigs from the bottle, and he's not ready to let it show. In the end he opts for the most obvious (to him) and knocks with his foot. As he's waiting he gradually takes on the look of someone who has just realised that it all seemed like a much better idea in the rehearsal. _

_ Ezra opens the door. His sleeves are rolled up, he isn't wearing his bowtie and the first three or so buttons of his shirt are open. Crowley stares for a bit. Then looks up.) _

CROWLEY: Have you been crying? Are you alright?

EZRA: I'm not.  _ (He's smiling, brightly and politely, but he's heartbreakingly sad.)  _ How are you, my dear? How can I help?  _ (He notices the bottle and the cello.)  _

CROWLEY: Bugger all, what's wrong? 

EZRA: Nothing, dear boy. Just a bit… melancholic.

CROWLEY: Melancholy is about brooding and frowning, not crying.

EZRA: Arguable. How can I help you?

CROWLEY: Alright, if you want to help so much, then do it by drinking with me and listening to my music, or rather the way I torture the instrument to make it. I hoped we'd get drunk before and you won't notice a thing.

EZRA: I could always lend you a hand. Come in.

***

_ (They are dutifully sloshed, long past the point of coherent speech. Crowley is sprawled over Ezra's sofa and Ezra is sitting primly and properly in front of him.) _

CROWLEY: Sssssooo, what had you all  _ melancholic _ ?

EZRA: Oh… neverm… nevermore… no, neverm… whatever. Just… thought about something and made myself sad.

CROWLEY: What the fuck did you think about? 

EZRA: Well, if you must know, I thought… what did I think about? Sh… I thought I'm old and fat and nobody fancies me… 

***

Crowley can swear he hears the sound of his jaw hitting the floor. It turns out to be his bow that has finally escaped his deadly grit. 

***

CROWLEY: Fuck me.

_ (Ezra makes a face that says that this is the entire point. Crowley misses it.) _

CROWLEY: What the fuck? Whoever told you that?

_ (He looks positively murderous.) _

EZRA: Doesn't matter, my dear boy. They are… right. So noth… mean… I just have to accept it.

CROWLEY: Nooooooo, you can't accsssssept it because it's not fucking true. 

_ (He waves his arms in the air, some of his fingers look like badly sharpened pencils.) _

EZRA: It is! It is, it is, it is. 

CROWLEY: It's not, not, not, not, not, not! You des… You seseve… deserve a family with seven kids that drive you crazy and a partner who fucking adores you!

EZRA: Do you think Michael adores me?

CROWLEY: Michael? Michael? Michael? Michael is a… a… a… smthng not nice! Nice's four letter word.

EZRA: And you are having trouble with those, my dear.

CROWLEY: Yeah, make fun of me, that's better. Do you like Michael?

EZRA: That's rather private.

CROWLEY: I saw you with your sleeves rolled, ngl, it can't get any more private. I'll play for you, you know? You'll roll over laughing, 'cause it's gonna be so emba… arrasssssing… sssstupid… like… but hey, I composed it for you and I thought I'd give you a pr… prem… play it for you for the first time! Gonna be hilar… fucking funny!

EZRA: Dear, you're too drunk to play!

CROWLEY: 'm never drunk enough to play. Joseph is ma cello, if he knows what's good for him, he'll do his bloody job, what the fuck!

_ (Crowley moves, unsteadily, across the room, grabs his cello, and suddenly he's not drunk at all, his movements do look a bit automatic but he seems to be in almost perfect control of his limbs, and his hips regrettably sway a bit less. He hands Ezra the cello and goes to bring himself a chair. Ezra follows him with his eyes, and it's clear he's been hoping for Crowley to bring two chairs.  _

_ Crowley settles a few steps away from Ezra, takes his cello back, lifts his bow. Ezra understands that Crowley is still too drunk to lift the bow while standing, so the position of his chair was determined by the place where he dropped the bow.) _

CROWLEY: You know… it was awf… amfh… bad of me to ass… to supp… to think that ma music can help you… but you wanted to help me and you're helping me by listening to ma music, ok?

EZRA: I'd love to hear your music.  _ (Ezra says it as if he's reciting "You can leave your hat on" in the Globe.) _

CROWLEY: Ssssee, it's abo'you. I look at you, and that's what I hear, alright? 

EZRA: I still think you are quite drunk.

CROWLEY: 'm not, ngl. 's of no conseq… impor… it doesn't fucking matter. Wanna listen to me and then play it with me? If you like It of course.

EZRA: I will like it if course, it's you.

CROWLEY: So what? Me, I'm a… not a good thing. I had a purpose and a shape and I lost it and I deserved it cos I was arrog… arrogant! Music. 

_ (He begins to play. He winces a lot but the flow, the harmony of the music is perfect. His grimaces are those of hurt and discomfort, which are rather obviously exhausting if not always painful. Yet, despite those winces and an occasional breath in sucked through gritted teeth, his arms and bad sharpened pencils of fingers know exactly what is it they are doing, and as for music, it is indeed as people see Ezra, as Ezra can never see himself - it's kind and ironic, a bit of a bastard, Haydn of a bastard. It has Beethoven's resilience and superhuman strength but it's contained by Bach's harmony and restraint. It is clear as Vivaldi and yearning as Monteverdi. In short, this music knows Ezra better than he knows himself, but he looks scared when he catches on that yearning. It feels as if he's being told a secret he's striving to keep. Crowley isn't looking at him, his eyes are closed, lips open, a smile dancing there, a small smile of Crowley, his very spirit. What a lot of bullshit. He's playing very well, though, and he's enjoying it despite the pain and discomfort. Ezra can't imagine _

Oh stop it, enough drama. Come on. 

Ezra can't imagine why everyone keeps insisting that Crowley can never be as brilliant as he used to be. If this is his skill at its lowest, then Ezra is frankly scared to think of that skill at its highest. 

But what can he know, huh? He loves music, sure, but he's not some devilishly talented composer who says he has written this marvelous (and many more adjectives) music for him, for Ezra.

EZRA: You shouldn't have done it, dear boy.

CROWLEY: What? You don't like it? Fuck, I'm being such a diva.

EZRA: I loved it, and thank you for playing it for me, but it can't possibly be about me.

CROWLEY: Well, that's what I hear when I see you. 

EZRA: Must be a heavenly warning for you. 

CROWLEY: Against what?

EZRA: Against looking at me. It's a signal for you, to turn you head and…

CROWLEY: Come here, angel.

_ (He gets up and drags an old wooden step ladder from Ezra's shelves, disorganised and dusty.) _

CROWLEY: Sit here.

_ (Ezra somehow doesn't protest. His body is much smarter after all, even if his mind keeps screaming some terrible nonsense. _

_ Crowley sits behind him, so now they are indeed pressed together, Crowley sees to it. He traces his hands down Ezra's shoulders lifting his arms as he reaches Ezra's hands.) _

So they play together. The rhythm is of course slower, but it's beautiful still, Ezra even prefers it that way. Crowley is breathing down his neck, his hair tickles Ezra's cheeks and ear and his ridiculously long legs are shadows of Ezra's.

CROWLEY: See, now I've put this music into you and it's you, it had been you since it was fucking born, but now you have it inside, it's your secret, angel, and it's safe with you. I haven't written it down, I've done it all in my head. 

***

He stood up, gently pulled the cello and the bow from Ezra's fingers and smiled.

"Take care, angel. Carrying music inside is a bit intoxicating. Can be very uncomfortable too. But it will wear off I promise… Unless you want to play it again, but it's up to you. From past experience I will remember it for about a week more, so… consider your options. Good night."

***

Crowley went to his room hopping a bit and humming "I could have danced all night." Ezra remained where Crowley had left him until the last of Crowley's warmth disappeared into the cool air of his room. Somehow the universe making a lot of exceptions to the second law of thermodynamics, refused to make any for Ezra's flat. 


	4. Chair, throne, hair, throat and hallelujah

Oh where to begin, where to begin? Let's begin with Anathema Device.

Anathema Device has never been anything but a legend. An offspring of an old Jewish family of luthiers, a daughter of an infinitely sardonic mother who did call her child Anathema since that is what Jews have been decreasingly considered for centuries, a luthier who has apparently just absolved the generations of knowledge and experience and became the most sought after luthier in the whole blue world. She and Crowley attended the same shul, went to the same Hebrew school, she a few classes ahead of him, and were thoroughly educated by the same old Jewess of a musician who worked on their hands so hard G-d couldn't help taking notes, and that's after She spent no small amount of time on Crowley's hands anyway. They served in the IDF together, attended the same university for a while, which Anathema didn't need and Crowley dropped out of to be picked up by Bea and shaped into something so otherworldly Anathema would barely recognize her friend even before the injury. 

She comes to Tadfield several times a year, but this time she came for Crowley alone, no crowded lectures or workshops or any other responsibilities. 

***

_ (Anathema is a stern woman who looks both much younger and much older than Crowley. She is seated in front of him by the window. Michael makes a move to scold Crowley but remembers that it's not his shift and he can saunter around and talk to his friends all he wants. Ezra is in the kitchen anyway, and Michael feels a bit benevolent towards Crowley when Ezra is not around, a worrying symptom of Ezra's infectious kindness.) _

ANATHEMA: Just so you know, I made copies.

CROWLEY: You didn't.

ANATHEMA: Alright I didn't. But I definitely wanted to.

CROWLEY: These are my hands. You told me you make each instrument according to musician's hands, and mine don't exist anymore.

ANATHEMA: Have you…

CROWLEY: I have considered and tried physiotherapy, yes. 

ANATHEMA: You're still a composer! You need to return to Bea…

CROWLEY: Ana, I'm not going to hire you as my therapist. You don't qualify.

ANATHEMA: Joseph, that's rude.

CROWLEY: As using my Hebrew name is. You're not my rabbi either. 

ANATHEMA: Don't make me… shit, Crowley, I want to help!

CROWLEY: Ana, you're a master, an artist, a true servant of your craft. I'm not a part of that craft anymore. 

ANATHEMA: You don't need to be so stoic about it, you know.

CROWLEY: Ana, you're not my therapist.

ANATHEMA: You don't have one! 

CROWLEY: It was nice seeing you, really, but I can't… I don't want to talk about it anymore, alright? Give me my hands.

_ (Anathema places a big paper bag on the table. It seems really heavy, but Crowley grabs it effortlessly and gives Anathema a peck on the cheek, then leaves. She stays for a while longer. Her attentive, clever eyes seem to be scanning the place. She's displeased.) _

***

Ezra had always been indulging, be it music, books or good food and rare wine. I know, I know I haven't shown much of those, but he's a cook who is friends with Bea, who is Nadia Boulanger of this universe, the owner of the cafe that feeds and hosts the students of this universe's Sorbonne, he's Rabelais and Goethe to everyone's young and hopeless romantic, some of whom want to shag him silly and worship his cranberry sauce and pale blue eyes. Savvy? 

Anyway, being the ever indulging guardian angel of Tadfield, Ezra knew how to enjoy things, unless those things were actually close to his heart, unless it meant taking that fetching waiter of his out and snogging him in the open. It had nothing to do with the gender of said waiter (it had a bit to do with it). It was more about saying first and foremost to himself that yes, I'm an aging angel, I want Crowley, I want to spend my life with him and it's such a pity that it occured to me now. 

Anyway, again, as things stood, Ezra loved his food, his cafe, his books, his music and his waiter. He couldn't help indulging, so he indulged in looking at him longingly, in playing the cello with him, in learning the music Crowley had written for him by heart. 

It also meant that to the vast array of midnight noises in his tall, strange building he added the sounds of Crowley's practicing. It meant that one night he heard a thud, a sob, and then another. He put on his old cardigan and walked out of his flat to follow that sob, and he might not have known it, but as he walked down the hall, he was Isolde looking out for Tristan, following that wicked call, that deadly song of agony… how very pathetic. Of me, of course, not of that handsome, beautiful man tracing his steps with a hand on the wall and walking closer and closer to the Crowley's door.

***

_ (It's unlocked, the door, so when nobody answers Ezra's knocking, he just pushes it and he does so thinking that it is locked, so he falls into the flat. _

_ Crowley is sitting on the floor, a neat fire in front of him is built of books, it has Baudelaire, Wilde and Gide, a bit of Proust… oh, what a shame. But the scariest thing isn't the books, it's wax hands slowly melting in the fire, the bits and pieces of cast form of those hands tossed around. Crowley is barely dressed, his hair unruly and badly cut and tossed into the fire. He looks like Antigone, and he would hate the comparison.) _

EZRA: My dear boy, darling…

_ (Crowley gasps, makes a few frantic movements, but he's not the master of his body at the moment, so in the end he's where he was when Ezra entered.) _

CROWLEY: Angel…

EZRA: Dear, beautiful, wonderful boy, what the hell are you doing?

_ (Crowley looks away in shame. Ezra comes closer and closer until he kneels next to Crowley and holds him.) _

CROWLEY: These were my hands. Anathema makes casts of the hands of musicians she makes instruments for. And then wax copies… sculptures. I'm… erasing them.

_ (Ezra holds him closer, kisses the top of his head, and Crowley rather unconvincingly or maybe just weakly, because he's exhausted, pushes him away.) _

CROWLEY: Nah, no pity, can't stand pity, pity is a four letter word!

EZRA: Shhh, shush, hush, my sweet, it's alright, I've got you, my beautiful boy, my darling, my love, it's alright…

CROWLEY: Can we both pretend we are drunk?

EZRA: Sure thing, darling. What, you think I'd come to you like that? I'd try to comfort you as if I cared? I'd hold you as if your pain invoked in me something other than empathy and a wish to comfort a fellow human?

CROWLEY: Yeah, keep talking, angel.

_ (And Ezra does keep talking, mostly soft, loving, cooing nonsense, and they both pretend it didn't happen when the wax hands are blotches of wax in the fire, and Baudelaire and Gide and Proust are but ashes on the floor.) _

CROWLEY: I'm just another Shadwell to you, right? You can't love me…

EZRA: Of course not, my love, I can't love you with fierce, personal love. It's just charity, surely, sweetheart. 

***

To Michael's great displeasure and fury, Crowley gets a life, which means he is much stricter with his shifts, and most of these are evening ones. He disappears early in the morning, black jacket, cello case, a bagful of sheets and a tune in his throat. Ezra can't catch a moment with him, which really is for the better, although if you don't get really drunk together, it's far more difficult to be pretend drunk together, but Ezra isn't picky, and he can still shower Crowley with longing gazes, and Crowley still winks at him (presumably, judging by the movement of his eyebrows behind the glasses). There is an additional hop to his gait, and… it's embarrassing really, but Ezra, you see, he keeps a cake, his best one, for his workers and the most scrumptious slices he keeps for Crowley, and Crowley always, always brings these to Ezra because he has "a heartburn, is really full, can't possibly appreciate the taste and the texture", and Ezra makes terrible, sexiest noises when he eats the cake, and Crowley always sits there, awestruck, as if he were some otherworldly being entirely unfamiliar with the concept of food consumption but entranced by it all the same.

***

If Ezra allowed himself to think clearly (which he thinks he does and he even considers his thinking too clear), he would have noticed how as the weeks pass (by the way, each Shabbat Crowley and Ezra go to the same shul, which is a torture for a different paragraph), Crowley grows more and more excited. He's positively giddy by the end of this chapter. He seems like a man who has a mischief on his mind and everything about this mischief is being organised so meticulously well that he can't help winking at Ezra more and sway his hips as if he had made a decision to put all the belly dancers of the world to shame once and for all. Ezra thinks he's found someone. The fact that each time some patron makes eyes at Crowley, the composer becomes livid with anger, escapes Ezra's notice, because he doesn't allow himself to think clearly.

***

Ah, here it is, the torture of the Shabbat paragraph. 

Most weeks Crowley is called up to read from the Torah. Ezra considers himself too seen and exposed as it is, everyone knows him (and loves him, but don't tell him, he'll smile at you and say that it's awfully kind of you to say such things but you are mistaken, at which point any person is forced to speak like a movie villain and croak that it is Ezra who is mistaken. In very. Many. Ways.), so he keeps his Torah reading skills to himself. He has a vague suspicion that Crowley is aware. He has another vague suspicion that Crowley reads so beautifully to torture Ezra, while Crowley suspects that Ezra is sitting there handsomely to infect each note of his voice with sensual theology. My, my, what a mess.


	5. While my cello gently weeps

And there was an evening, and there was morning, and it happened six times four times four, and about four months passed. As of the moment, Anthony Joseph Crowley is sauntering down the isle to the bimah to deliver… pardon, to give a drash. For all intents and purposes the current parashah among other things tells us about Jacob and Rachel, which is a cheesy story, to be honest, but if you dress it in six thousand years worth of tradition, it's classic and classy, and so Anthony Joseph Crowley is taking his place, sans sunglasses and winks at Ezra like the mischief incarnate he is. Ezra makes an admirable effort of not blushing, besides he doesn't have any reasons for blushing, alright? Don't upset the man by your displays of reasonable lack of reason or unreasonable reasons or whatever. 

Crowley is talking about recognition, about an inevitable chemical reaction between Jacob and Rachel, and how it only takes a glance, some water and there he is, dear Jacob, more than a bit of a bastard, the future wrestler of angels, and a youthful shepherd girl Rachel, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, and whoop, sisters' relationship is ruined, Jacob is practically a slave, his future father in law is too much of a bastard to be worth knowing and it's just all a mess, but if you look at it closely, it resulted in Joseph, and in short Crowley is so naughty he deserves a good thwarting, his naughtiness is as infectious as Ezra's kindness, and Ezra is more infatuated than Rachel, oh such a glorious drash, it has references to Talmud, midrashim and Heschel plus some Byron (what?), so in Ezra's eyes and ears it feels like an inappropriate love letter that one must show to one's mother immediately and beg for forgiveness… Ezra shouldn't worry that much though, the letter is not addressed to him, but it's definitely addressed to someone present in the shul, so Ezra lets his thoughts wander to Shadwell's curses or Michael's hateful, yearning eyes and does a very impressive, however shitty, job of convincing himself that this is what he deserves, and then he hates himself even more because such thoughts imply Shadwell and Michael are somehow worse than Ezra (they totally are, they are unlucky, unloved bigots, and while Shadwell, according to gossip so old it became legend has a history of trauma and mental health problems, Michael is not only a product of prejudiced environment, she's someone who sees it as their mission to spread that prejudice around, sees the truth in their prejudice, someone has messed with her brain so much she believes all the rubbish she believes in).

Ezra never works on Saturdays, but he does Saturday evenings. 

***

_ (It's a nasty evening, it's raining, it's windy, Crowley is nowhere to be seen, not that anyone is looking for him, especially not Ezra. We can observe him actively not looking. He's walking around the cafe, pleasant, beautiful, maybe a tad wistful, but it might as well be the dreadful weather. Bea's hand reaches out to him, and he beams at them. It's genuine, he's happy to see them.) _

BEA: I want to show you something. To tell you something and then to show. Or maybe just show. Don't know really. What would you like? Are you busy? You mustn't be, right?

EZRA: Oh dear, so many thoughts, so little time, but you have my complete attention as usual, so I'm listening and looking.

BEA: See, before the shit happened, Crowley and I were building… creating… gathering… an orchestra. When he left, I kept working on it, and ehm… tonight we're having a dress rehearsal, so I thought, how about you and I form an audience?

EZRA: Oh, I'd love to come! Maybe Crowley should too… you know… so that he doesn't waste his days here.

BEA: Ezra, he's the conductor, alright? That orchestra is shaped by him and to his needs, which sounds far more BDSM than I intended. He wrote his own piece, and I bet you'll want to hear it, because it's dedicated to you, but subtly, through notation and stuff… he specifically told me not to invite you.

EZRA: Then I'm afraid I can't accept your invitation. 

BEA: I'm his mentor, his artistic director and your friend. I will do as I like. You deserve to hear it.

EZRA: Maybe I have.

BEA: Have you?

EZRA: I have a reason to believe so.

BEA: What, like he played the whole song cycle to you or has he been practicing like the idiot he is when everyone is asleep, everyone but not you, of course… you have an old soul, Ezra, and I bet at some point it was Isolde's or Trystan's. Or whoever it was that invented being wistful while the music plays.

EZRA: It was king David, I think. No, apparently I haven't heard it, and you are so mistaken. I thought he was… thinking of someone, intently, but it can't be me.

BEA: Ok, so, if I'm mistaken, I'm not getting you any tickets this year… Ezra, I'm never wrong. There's but a handful of Jews who have been wrong, and king David was definitely one of them. Come on.

***

Crowley has heard somewhere that humans have skeletons, and that however wonderful the bone structure is, it usually restricts one's movements a bit. Crowley had always considered this story to be wrong. He is proving it this very moment, sitting in front of the orchestra, his legs crossed so many times he either has a rubber skeleton (which would make for a wicked David Bowie song) or he has a dozen or so bones broken but chooses to ignore it. 

The musicians are so ready, they are bored. They don't possess the same (un)fortunate quality of mind Crowley does - his mind is restless. It might be symptomatic, but nobody ever cared to make a mention of it, because the products of Crowley's restless mind are just so incredibly beautiful. Gabriel is annoyingly practicing in the farthest from the orchestra corner of a large auditorium, which is a bit dark, has rows of red uncomfortable chairs that are supposed to devoid one's ass of any feeling and therefore presumably allow the soul to fly, and the soul does fly, but in search of comfort, not music. Bea loves these chairs dearly. 

And there they are, with Ezra, no less, which is noticed by Gabriel and unnoticed by Crowley, mostly because his legs have fallen asleep and he's trying to figure out where these legs are. His attention is captured the moment Gabriel greets both his spouse and Ezra, so Crowley just falls off his chair to the amusement of everyone present, the chair included. 

"What is this?" Crowley asks. Ezra blushes and looks away. Bea fumes.

"You don't refer to people by "what", Crowley." They scold.

"And you don't do what I specifically asked not to do." Crowley manages to get up. He's fetching like an idle corgy of the Queen in his black turtleneck and black tight jeans. His hair is still the badly cut mess, but he's fine, so fine, and his cheekbones cut through the air and act as a bow to anyone's heartstrings if they happen to be a fan of cheekbones. Ezra isn't. Not in general anyway. There are rather thick glasses on his eyes and they look ridiculous and out of place. Crowley adjusts them.

"Did you know he's as blind as a newborn kitten? Can't wear contact lenses and thinks no one can tell he can't see shit if he wears sunglasses. At least, this is my explanation for all this shameless sauntering." Bea speaks with the loving glee of a parent who has repeatedly warned against something and then watches their child getting into all sorts of troubles for said child's refusal to listen. "So, I think you should begin. Gabriel, stop practicing!" Bea shuts Gabriel's heavy honeyed baritone, and Gabriel obliges, he's the only newborn kitten around. "Crowley, I need to remind you that dabbing and belly dancing are not conducting."

"Oh really? So, Bernstein can conduct with his eyebrows, but I'm not Jewish or gay enough?"

"The Almighty forgot to connect your pelvis to the rest of you, so of course, in good time you must develop separate eyebrows, but not yet."

Ezra laughs at that, which leads to the following series of events - Crowley smiles like a newborn kitten and like some awful crush of yours that could melt you with a "huh" and especially with "a-ha", Ezra blushes like said crush, but the crush who is entirely unaware of their status as a crush, Bea melts like a bubbe and Gabriel looks puzzled.

Music. Sweet music.

***

At first, it's Telemann. Bea manages to insert their insights every now and then, so Ezra learns that Crowley hunts high and low for period instruments, and Anathema makes very good ones too (duh!?). Crowley dabs, belly dances, hops on one foot and waves his hands in such an enticing manner that no, he's not a kitten, he's a serpent. The musicians melt into one, this is when Ezra sees with what has to be horror but is in fact love, what Bea's plan has been all along, at least since Crowley's injury - all those people, they form a new cello for Crowley, the one he doesn't have to touch. Maybe in the beginning the purpose was to create an orchestra, a company of musicians, a company of equals. Now Bea thoughtlessly, carelessly, passionately put them all on the altar of their favourite student, and Ezra hates it but he agrees that Crowley deserves that, besides the crime is not Crowley's, he seems to be unaware, he shares his ecstasy, his craft, his music with them. He sucks Telemann in here from the aether, and the old composer is definitely happy to see him, that's the most stunning, Crowley is equal, with all his ridiculous movements, dabbing, dancing, hopping, swaying and sauntering. He trained them well, he melted them together…

***

"I asked you, specifically asked you," Crowley pleads as the music is over.

"And it was the surest way to make me do just that," replies Bea. 

"Pity," says Crowley, lifts his head, and the gesture summons Gabriel to stand by the orchestra. 

Gabriel has a vocal range of at least two singers. He didn't know that until he met Bea and they pulled it out of him, so his countertenor is Bea, his loyalty to them. He sings Goethe's Book of Cupbearer, Crowley's score being more wicked to him than Bea ever could, but Gabriel likes the challenge…

This is even more of a love letter than Crowley's drash, but if drash might have left any place for doubt, Goethe doesn't (he does, but it concerns different things and is maddeningly certain about the whole "Crowley is in love with Ezra" affair). Ezra is less and less aware of anyone's else presence, yet he can clearly see that… it's not a love letter to him, it's a gift, a joyous, selfless gift, something that asks for nothing in return, doesn't even ask for a privilege to hand the gift, hence the whole "I asked you not to do it", it's just some breathless, overwhelming attraction, affection that was too much to bear. Whatever has Ezra done to deserve it? To inspire it?

***

They walk home in silence, Ezra still deafened by the music and Crowley embarrassed about the whole situation. They enter through the front door, and in the dark Ezra offers Crowley some wine. They then sit together with their glasses.

"Was good, wasn't it?"

"It was brilliant, my dear. I'm sorry I listened to Bea and… trespassed, but your music made me… happy."

"Then it achieved its purpose."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It was dedicated to you…"

There's shuffling and then fire, Crowley lights a candle between them and looks at Ezra searchingly.

"Remember that day, a few months ago, when you lent me a hand for the first time?"

"Of course, dear boy."

"You said I was laughing at you, but it wasn't that, angel. I was… I noticed, for the first time, too, how you look at me. It should have scared me, should have repulsed me, especially after you mentioned Michael, especially when I listened more carefully to the staff and learned you had been together for years… But you know, the scariest thing was that you wouldn't look at me like that again, and I couldn't bear it."

"That wasn't being together, and whatever it was, I ended it after I learned you made sure Shadwell got his food."

"I didn't even go down to the pit."

"Oh you did, dear boy, the last time a week ago when I had to visit my family again."

"Do they… what do they want from you, angel?"

"Nothing, my dear. My mother is old and sick, and she wants to see me sometimes."

"And you?"

"And I want to see you."

(Whenever has he become so brave? Was it wine? Was it music? Was it his mother's "marry a good lad, my boy, who cares what everyone else says?")

Crowley got up scaring Ezra and making him stand up as well, but the young man chuckled and then said, "I won't lock my door, so… anytime at all, just come in, angel, will you?"

***

Winged Cupid is painted blind so that he doesn't pry. Neither should I. 


	6. Of angels

Come hither, fools and impossible dreamers, come hither, drunkards and knowers and seekers of passing pleasures and joys, come hither and try to make no noise. Come hither and see nothing, for winged Cupid is painted blind, besides it's night. Come hither with your books and bottles and cigarettes, with your cups of hot beverages of choice, come hither empty-handed, in your finest pyjamas and beautiful garments. Come hither and rejoice in the non-linearity, the quantum nature of love. 

Now, don't pry and trust my judgment and my account. 

It's the darkest blue in Crowley's flat, and it dissolves into velvet black the lower it gets, but on the edge of the blue there's a copper head propped up on the elbow. Against anything, the owner of said head and elbow seems to have found light in something (you shouldn't refer to people as "something", Crowley) beneath him, where the night is hiding from the impending dawn (you shouldn't treat all things as fate, Ezra). 

"You spilled the colour from your eyes, angel, look, we're practically drowning in the blue."

"Better to see you with, darling."

"Tender wolf, my Ezra. Are you alright?"

"I'm happy."

Crowley swoons. "Tell me about it, angel, tell me about your happiness."

"It feels like there is a city being constructed in my chest."

"Which city?"

"Alexandria. It's perfectly planned, it takes the direction of the winds into consideration, so that it's never scorchingly hot or freezing, it's a poem of a city, it has a library, and the young emperor who commanded to build the city will soon leave and will never see it finished."

"The last part doesn't sound like happiness."

"Don't frown. I'm scared."

"I'm no emperor. The only kingdom I wish to claim is that city within you. Don't argue, at least for now, or I'll get angry and wistful."

"No, leave those to me. My eyes are warm when I look at you, my dear."

"So are mine."

"I'm in love with you."

"As I am with you, angel. Do me a favour, will you?"

"Whatever can I do for my young emperor?"

"Trust me, angel."

"I'm trying, my dear. It will take time."

"Of course. I'm in no hurry."

"Which surprises me a bit, but I'm not arguing."

"Such a good angel! Do you want me to quit?"

"Do you want to quit?"

"No, I absolutely don't. Do you want to keep it a secret?"

"Depends on how big it is."

"Naughty angel. Let's get some sleep, huh?"

***

Actually Ezra has never been so happy. He hasn't known that so much happiness can fit into his life. Nobody glares at him (Michael does, but that's not new), nobody judges him (Michael does etc), people somehow stop making eyes at Crowley, and Crowley is working better than ever. Ezra goes to rehearsals with him, and they spend every night together. Crowley takes food to Shadwell every morning. He kisses sleepy Ezra and asks him not to worry. He tries to climb up the ivy one morning and falls most ridiculously. He looks smitten when worried Ezra climbs down to him without a care or trouble. He's laughed at when Ezra takes him back through the back door and happen upon several of their colleagues. Ezra isn't laughed at. 

"I told you so," says Crowley with a smile and shamelessly kisses Ezra's ear in front of a waiter, a sous-chef and an accountant. 

Crowley holds his hand in the shul and all of it is just too bloody good to be true. There must be something underneath, some mystery, some devious plan. He overhears Michael saying to someone that Crowley must have made a bet with his friends about seducing the gullible man who nobody in their right mind would want in their bed, especially not when that someone is a young man with a certain reputation. Ezra doesn't pay it much attention, because Bea has told him just now that there was a betting pool about whether Crowley would remain loyal to Joseph the cello. But it does make Ezra think that all this happiness is too good to be true. 

***

_ (Crowley's flat. Early morning. Ezra walks out of the bathroom drying his messy curls. He's fully dressed. Crowley is biting on his pencil as he's working on his partitura. He's so absorbed in his work, that Ezra finds himself angry and before he can stop himself, he starts pacing, as if looking for something, which is entirely unnecessary in Crowley's flat because every little thing has a place, and Ezra has a place too, and this place is a colony of Ezra's cluttered flat in Crowley's immaculately organised space.) _

CROWLEY: Stop that.  _ (He doesn't look up from his work.) _

EZRA: What, my dear?

CROWLEY: Don't "my dear" me, you're angry, you are pacing and moving stuff.

EZRA: Oh, so I should just sit and admire you?

CROWLEY: No, you should make yourself some tea, breathe deeply and think of how happy we are.

EZRA: I'm not happy, not anymore, not now.

CROWLEY: Can I help?  _ (He still doesn't look up.) _

***

Ezra doesn't want to answer, it will sound awful, it will be bitter, he is bitter and disgustingly needy (he's the only one disgusted). 

***

EZRA: What will become of us?

CROWLEY: As of today, nothing I hope.  _ (His eyes never leave his work, his lanky legs are somehow all over the place, he's wearing Ezra's pyjamas because he's always cold and because Ezra asked him to.) _

EZRA: And as of tomorrow?

CROWLEY: Bea persuaded me to return, sort of. I mean we got the funding, so I'll work with our orchestra. 

EZRA: You're telling me this now?

CROWLEY: It's fresh news, learned about it yesterday, and once I have you in my arms, I'm not in the mood to talk about my career. I'm still not… over the fact that… I mean, I always thought I will be a musician first, composer and conductor second and third. 

EZRA: I'm sorry, my dear.

CROWLEY: I forbid you to try to calm down because of your pity for me.

EZRA: Love is a four letter word too, you know.

CROWLEY: But you are not a being of love now, Ezra. You're bitter… Come, give me a hand, will you?

_ (Ezra was about to calm down, but all the anger is back.) _

***

When Crowley asks for a hand it mostly means "let's snuggle, I'll teach you how to play cello, and hey, I wrote another thing for you, and we'll end up forgetting poor Joseph". Sometimes Ezra offers his help, having witnessed Crowley's anger and frustration. Many a night have been spent with Ezra kissing and caressing Crowley's hands and telling him stories of leper painters who continued painting even after losing their hands completely, and he has promised Crowley that he'll never leave him in the selva to rot alive alone, but will stay with him. 

Right now the cello isn't even next to Crowley, and it angers Ezra even more. He grabs the instrument, but Crowley stops him, all the while keeping his eyes on his music. "Leave Joseph, come and give me a hand."

Ezra obliges. Crowley briefly looks at their hands then returns to his papers.

"Give me your heart, too." He demands.

"You have it, my darling."

"And you have mine. I asked you to trust me. Have I been bad? Do I need to be punished?" Crowley finally abandons the music and turns fully to Ezra.

"You've been wonderful. I'm sorry, I… I can't believe this is happening, we are happening."

"What did they tell you, angel?"

"Who?"

"Anyone. Michael. What did she tell you?.. No, I don't want to hear. You're beautiful, and… you know, I always ask myself what I would choose, my hands or you…"

"Crowley, my sweet love, why are you torturing yourself! That's an awful question."

"You haven't thought about it?"

"I haven't. I wouldn't."

"Because you think I'd choose my hands, angel?"

"Because such choice is unthinkable."

"I never frequented your cafe before. Never cared that much about food or those pale blue eyes of yours everyone is gushing about. Probably, I should have… you'd have trusted me by now…"

"It doesn't matter anymore, we are here, together, and I refuse to think of your injury as a price for us."

"I sometimes do. As a thought experiment."

"Darling…"

"You need to start working, angel."

"No, neither of us do. Talk to me."

"When I quit, I want us to live together. I want us to live together now, but maybe we could find a place for us? A home, something with a garden. Seven children and stuff."

"Sounds lovely."

"I want us to stay like that, together."

"Sounds even better."

"And one day, maybe on our tenth anniversary, you'll see that I can be trusted."

***

As Ezra cooks, he thinks. He thinks of seven children and about Crowley and about being happy. He thinks of Crowley's youth, talent, his music, his entire life. He thinks of Shadwell who absolutely detests Crowley and judging by his curses, thinks that Ezra is so tired of him he sent a replacement, that sinful young lad who smiles at him but Ezra's smile was genuine, and Crowley's is polite. Maybe he's not wrong, but Ezra can't wake up on time anymore, sleeping next to Crowley is something he can't get enough of, and even if Crowley gets up, his smell and his warmth stay with Ezra until his lover comes back, stinky and dirty. Maybe he should make an effort, the man needs someone to care about him… 

Ezra also thinks of a city in his chest. It's stopped being Alexandria and turned into Jerusalem, cluttered, complex, strange, impossibly dear, beloved, sleepy. He smiles. He wants to think Crowley smiles too.

***

Crowley smiles, indeed. He's doing the most boring thing Michael could have invented for him - he's counting cutlery and polishing it on the way. Michael is looking around in distaste. Crowley is only looking at his work and he's thinking about Ezra. 

"Dearest angel, Israel, wrestling with me through the night, and you know why I won't bless you? I want you to return to me again. I end up blessing you all the same. Dearest angel, the alchemist, the abstractor of quintessence, the mentor of giants, the kindest, softest soul on Earth."

***

Against all the… stuff, Ezra can hear Crowley in the kitchen. He thinks back of course.

"Darling, I might be an alchemist, but you are the abstractor of quintessence, my love. You saw me, my longing for you and turned it into music, you saw that it had always been my essence, my quintessence, I just didn't have you to see it. Rabelais me, darling, I love when you do."

***

"Angel! The angel of my days and my nights, my sleep and my insomnia, the tracer of my lines, the geometrist of my angles… That's more of Márquez, don't you think? Let me readjust a bit… So, my dear alcoholics, sweet drunkards, shameless hedonists and unfaithful lovers! I'm here to tell you, you bunch of adorable messes, that it has been pointed out by the ancient Greeks and probably even earlier, that the wine gets better with the good company, and you, my sweet angel, who by chance happened to fall in the midst of our drunken mischief, are the best company this smitten lover of yours has had the fortune to find! You, your eyes, the flush of your cheeks, the scrunch of your nose, all of it turns water into the finest vintage and the finest vintage into the nectar of gods we don't believe in, because we are good Jews… you are a good Jew, and me, my angelic bastard, I am a pagan worshipper of your thighs. Said worship is carnal, but nevertheless very intellectual, for no other kind of worship could have won me your heart which I carry with me on daily basis on the account of an ancient belief that carrying your beloved's heart around cures hangover, and I'm perpetually drunk, my angel, as you are well aware of…"

***

Michael rushed to Crowley and grabbed a meat knife from the pile of those, carefully polished and accounted for. Crowley moved to object but then he saw Shadwell, clean, in well-worn but washed clothes, sitting by the window. He wasn't even cursing. A neat pile of money lay in front of him on the table and he was rather politely complaining about the lack of a proper knife for the roast beef he was about to order. Michael harshly walked up to him and stuck the knife in his direction trying to avoid looking at the man. 

Crowley saw Shadwell's watery eyes growing desperate and was about to interfere but Shadwell stood up and left. Michael remained standing there, cursing like Shadwell never could.

Nobody saw him again until a few weeks later the reeking from the pit became insufferable and Shadwell was found dead. Ezra and Crowley were the only ones to come to his burial.


	7. Fool to want and in general

See, when the inspector first came to Tadfield, he was young, idealistic and stubborn like a young idealistic ass, and he was just as adorable. The man had no life of his own, was available at all hours and was a descendant of a witchfinder, which was his constant source of shame, as well as complete inability to work on any computer without breaking the thing within ten seconds. DI Pulsifer worked closely with the mayor, local council, residents and everyone in general, including hospitals, social services and well, every possible bureaucratic institution you could think of. All that effort resulted in Tadfield being a safe place, a very, very safe place. Which in turn resulted in Shadwell's murder (oh no! really?) being about the first in DI Pulsifer's career. 

Ah, right. Yes, it was a murder. 

Shadwell stopped returning the dishes the day after he had come to the cafe, and neither Ezra, nor Crowley paid it any mind, because the man was nothing but unconventional and rude. Crowley just kept bringing the food and took the tray from the previous day back, with the food untouched. Crowley would leave the food by the cave, but seeing it untouched he told about it to Ezra, to which Ezra replied that Shadwell sometimes behaved like that and one had to be persistent to convince him to accept something. 

Anyway, now when it was discovered that Shadwell had been killed, Ezra became worried. It seemed as if the whole world had thrown up on his bed and he could no longer feel safe, no matter how tightly Crowley held him at night, no matter how smitten he looked.

Crowley would often sit with his (his? yes, definitely his) musicians and Bea and they would talk and laugh and plan, and Ezra had several thoughts about it.

He of course was happy for his… lover? Partner? Husband? For his Crowley (ew, Ezra, you could have been subtler, you know) to have the orchestra and plans and the whole brave new future. From what Ezra could hear in the passing, he was never mentioned, not that he expected to be… 

***

_ (Crowley's flat. It's dark but the moon is full, and the moon has its full attention on Ezra's moon-pale hair, because we all love a twin. His mirror twin and next of kin and complete opposite is somewhere in the dark, breathing hard and still moaning a bit. Ezra is so collected it's a shame.) _

CROWLEY: Angel, my love, what's wrong?

EZRA: Why would you think something's wrong, my sweet darling?

CROWLEY: You're supposed to be a blubbering mess.

EZRA: I'm pretty sure I can't sit.

CROWLEY: Should I kiss you there?

_ (He's suddenly ready to conquer the world.) _

EZRA: That's gross. A bit.

CROWLEY: Rimming is not gross, besides I wouldn't do it for just anyone. My wicked tongue is all yours.

EZRA: I'll hold you to it.

CROWLEY: Please do. What's wrong?

EZRA: Do you ever mention… us to your friends?

CROWLEY: No, not really.

EZRA: Are you ashamed of me?

CROWLEY: Angel, are you nuts? I love you, I'm happy with you, all my music is about you, all the music is about you, to be precise. What is it about? You want me to boast about your sweet arse to other people?

EZRA: You don't need to be vulgar about it. I want you… To mention me. To say… that you care what your lover…

CROWLEY: My husband.

EZRA: What your lover… thinks. That you are happy. Why wouldn't you mention it if you are so happy?

CROWLEY: Husband. You are my husband. My next of kin. I cherish you and I don't want to share it with anyone but you.

EZRA: So, you're ashamed…

CROWLEY: Are you even listening to me, angel?

EZRA: I am. I hear you too. You don't want your cultured friends to know you've settled for a cook.

CROWLEY: You don't hear me, Ezra. Also, I've settled for you, for my love, for my darling who belittles me a few minutes after I loved him thoroughly. 

EZRA: I don't want your pity. You wouldn't have settled for me, had you been healthy.

_ (A loud thud against the wall, an overall unpleasant moan, then Crowley rolls over Ezra and on the floor, gets up and hastily gets dressed. His right hand is hanging at his side.) _

CROWLEY: I don't deserve it. However much Michael has fucked you up, I don't fucking deserve it!

_ (He leaves before Ezra can say a word.) _

***

So, he's lying there in the dark, the bed still warm and smelling of Crowley. He's staring at the ceiling and feeling like a damn fool, and deservedly so. He comes to realise that he'd be just as angry had Crowley mentioned him, although the way Crowley would have mentioned him is very different from the truth, and Ezra can see that. He can also see that he's exactly where he was a few deliriously happy months ago, alone and a bastard. 

In the morning he sees a hole in the wall where Crowley must have hit it. He traces the indent with his fingers and kisses it tearfully. The city in his chest is indeed abandoned, glorious but unnecessary, desperately not enough for the young emperor chased away by the architect in a fit of self-righteousness. 

***

What DI Pulsifer knows for sure is that Shadwell had a minor injury, a wound which got infected. But the force, the direction of the stab suggest that someone tried to kill and the location of the wound allows for murderous intent, but who would want to kill Shadwell? For sure, he wasn't loved, far from it, but… who would benefit from it? He checks the troubled young people of Tadfield. Everyone has a solid alibi. He checks… everything. The last people who might have seen him are Ezra Fell and Anthony Crowley. He's told about it by that decidedly not nice but very helpful manager of the cafe, Michael. Further investigation shows that Michael might have inferior motives, but it's the only clue DI Pulsifer has and he has to follow it. It's his first murder after all, and he wants to think that it's his last.

***

The next day Crowley has one of his increasingly rare morning shifts. He comes back, his right hand is in the cast and Michael scolds him. Ezra hears it but when he rushes to them, Crowley is already gone. He's working, despite Michael's protests, he doesn't spare a look at Ezra.

***

Oh, look at me, you impossible, beautiful thing, look at me. Please, just look at me. Hit me, cut me, kill me, but just look at me.

Crowley's friends and colleagues arrive, Anathema with them. Crowley doesn't talk to them. Crowley doesn't come near them. You see, all this is so intense that I can't let the characters speak for themselves because they are in a bad place and coherent speech is not an option. Me, on the other hand, I'm half-drunk, and it's cold outside, yet I'm still capable of coherent speech therefore I'm the only one talking. QED. Anyway.

Crowley is doing well, he's working and doing miracles with his cast, he isn't breaking any plates, he even manages to smile, such a dear, darling boy.

Bea catches Ezra by the sleeve and pulls him to them.

"What the everlasting fuck is going on?" They hiss. 

"I can't see what you mean, Bea." Ezra gives them a polite and smug smile.

"Don't fuck with me. He never shuts up about you, and how good you are and how he'll never be able to leave Tadfield for more than a week because he basically can't take a shit without you… well, without the last part."

Ezra looks at them with big eyes.

"Don't look at me with your big eyes! Did you offend him?" Bea stands up. Bea is a short person, but nobody is stupid enough to think they have no power. They routinely bend people to their will and people come back to thank them for it.

***

Oh reader! Come and weep with me, for Ezra is a fool. It's an adorable quality, Crowley loves him for it, as does everyone else, but as of the moment I, the humble Internet rat, have to agree with Michael and be spiteful about this foolishness. Crowley is a soft, tender man, who does nothing but mention his husband to anyone listening and at this point no one wants to listen, because yes, they get it, he's sappy, in love and surprisingly not with his cello (poor Joseph, he's all alone in his case). He is a fool too, because he'd never admit to Ezra that he's soft. Softness is not what Ezra, in Crowley's opinion, wants, so Crowley is all protective and fierce. He's goo poured into a knight's armour, and he broke his hand in frustration because his precious beloved thinks so poorly of him. Oh, what a mess! What a shame! 

***

_ (Anathema in the meantime gets up and walks to Crowley. They have a lively and rather aggressive discussion, and then Anathema leaves him and returns to her company, unwittingly saving Ezra from Bea's wrath.) _

ANATHEMA: Take this!  _ (She pushes the cello into Ezra's hands.)  _ I made it for him, abandoned everything else… it's made to suit his… new hands. He must be curious enough about it, so keep it, he'll come to you.  _ (She says the last part threateningly, so she must have understood something.) _

EZRA: Sure, of course. I'll make sure he gets it.

BEA: You'd better. Or I'll kill you. I can. You know me.  _ (They dismiss Ezra, and Ezra is dismissed.) _

  
  



	8. And in the end... Newton's third law.

It's a busy day in the narrative. It's a very long day for Israel Fell. He took the cello back to Crowley's flat, although had he thought twice, nay, even once about it, he'd have taken it to his own flat, but he doesn't think clearly. He honestly doesn't have enough strength to think. 

When he gets down, he sees… a sight.

Crowley is towering over Bea who is looking at him with that expression for which the word "awe" was invented. They are not scared, mind you, but they definitely appreciate Crowley's ability to be scary, and everyone at the table, including Anathema, is really scared. 

Unfortunately this is how DI Pulsifer finds him. Don't worry, caring reader, respectable inspector's attention stays focused on Crowley for about a second before he notices Anathema. In a year or two, happily married DI Pulsifer would tell his wife who really had to have been smarter than marrying such a goof, that he owed his happiness to his first and only murder case. But enough of that future and frankly boring happiness.

Bea pats Crowley's broken hand and says in their clear and vaguely sinister voice, "My dearest apprentice, the master and mirror of my might, I'm proud of you. You deserve anything you choose… now, fuck off."

DI Pulsifer asks for Michael and Michael points him to Crowley, and Crowley points him to nobody, so the inspector wants to talk to Ezra. Michael is instantly ready to bring the man to DI Pulsifer, but Crowley stops her and insists that the morning of the day Shadwell supposedly died on, Ezra was in his, Crowley's bed, and sound asleep. Michael leaves immediately, and DI Pulsifer puts a few things together. 

"Did you have any reasons to dislike Shadwell?"

"No, absolutely not."

"He's not exactly popular."

"So what? I'm not violent, inspector."

"You appeared to be threatening Bea…"

Bea pushes the door so hard, it flies, and like oncoming storm approaches Crowley and DI Pulsifer. (Oh, right, they were talking outside the cafe. Silly me, missing on the important details.)

"This is my Crowley. You'll leave him the fuck alone," spits Bea and drags Crowley back inside. DI Pulsifer remembers being told that nobody ever disagreed with Bea. He shudders in fear. 

***

_ (Just outside the cafe. DI Pulsifer and Ezra talk. The inspector didn't mean to, but Michael called on her boss, so now they are kind of stuck together.) _

PULSIFER: So, where were you that day?

EZRA: When precisely?  _ (He's calm and friendly. How he manages it is beyond me. I have it on good authority that all he wants is to beg for Crowley's forgiveness.) _

PULSIFER: The whole day, please.

EZRA: I woke up a bit late. We had breakfast…  _ (He suddenly looks wistful.)  _ I told him that he really should stop going down into that pit… He laughed. We got to work, he left in the evening to practice with his orchestra, returned to me late at night…

PULSIFER: Who are you talking about again?

EZRA: Oh, how very silly of me! Crowley. He's… he's my husband.

PULSIFER: Congratulations…

EZRA: Thank you. I really need to make up with him, it's killing me how much I hurt him.

PULSIFER: Ehm… Mr Fell, I'm not exactly… er… Like, why would you discuss your private life with me?

EZRA: I don't care… I was so… stupid. So cruel… good day.  _ (Ezra walks away, distraught. The inspector doesn't understand a thing and enters the cafe after Ezra but immediately forgets about his duty. Let's forgive him. It's the first time in his life.) _

***

It's night. Ezra is sitting on his bed rocking back and forth and biting his lips. The sounds of rain and wind outside are distracting, and Ezra needs all of his attention on just one thing. Said thing, pardon, man enters his flat without knocking and stands by the door, hands in his pockets, messy hair sticking in all directions.

"My dear…" whispers Ezra and gets up.

"Thank you. For the cello. Does Pulsifer suspect you? What do you think?"

"I really don't care. How is your hand?"

"Broken."

"I'm so, so sorry, my darling boy, my love, I shouldn't have ever doubted you…" Ezra tries to walk closer to Crowley, then stops, obviously doesn't know what he's doing.

"Come here, angel," Crowley calls softly opening his arms. Ezra lands there like… well, he lands there heavily and desperately and buries his face in Crowley's shoulder. "Listen, you old fool, we will get married as soon as possible. I will love you forever, and you will do the same to me."

Ezra just whimpers and nods.

"Before you say anything else… yes, you've been an arse, yes, I still love you, I don't think I will ever stop. I love you because you're kind and caring, because you're an idiot. Because I yearn to show you how impossibly beautiful you are. Because, most importantly, I'm so happy with you. Don't you dare hurt me like that again, don't take that happiness away from me. I won't survive it again."

Ezra whimpers some more, covers Crowley's face with kisses, caresses his hands and shoulders and pulls him into a tight embrace.

"My dear, darling, sweet love, I swear to never hurt you again or doubt you. I'm yours, all of me is."

Crowley's voice takes a few steps down and the man positively growls, threatens, claims, "You are so good to me, Ezra. Don't upset me again, alright? Otherwise I'm going to be so… sad.  _ (The man couldn't be menacing even if his life depended on it.) _ Bea told me I deserve whatever I choose, and I'm choosing you over and over again."

"Nobody argues with Bea," whispers Ezra as he reverently undresses his husband.

"Tonight… tonight I want you to pleasure me. Is that alright?"

"More than so."

"Just for tonight. Because I missed you, because I deserve you."

"You deserve so much more, darling… oh darling, yes, yes, please. Let me… let me."

"Whatever you want, angel, whatever you want."

"You own me, you know that, right?"

"I hope so… I will be assertive tonight, just tonight, and I won't accept any "I'm fat"s and "Don't look at me like that"s, ok, angel?"

"Of course, darling… Please, don't leave me again…"

It breaks Crowley (he's goo after all). He raises Ezra to his feet, holds him, protective, caring and tender.

"I will do anything, angel, to let you see yourself the way I do, and once I'm done, you'll never doubt yourself again."

"As you say, darling, just… I can't breathe without you."

"A bit of a cliche, isn't it? Breathe all you want without me, but I forbid you to doubt me. I forbid you to ignore that you're my home, my saving grace, my angel, that I love you so, so much… I didn't know I could love so much… do you hear me?" Crowley pulls Ezra's head up, messing his hair, looking him straight into the eye  _ (and reader, this is the only straight thing Crowley does) _ .

"I do, my love, I agree, I… I missed you, good lord, I missed you."

"Prove it."

***

There is scientific truth based on empirical proof and I had no intent to make a limerick, yet the limerick is what you get, and it's not even a good one, oy vey is mir. Now, where were we? No, don't look there, reader, they are making up and it's going well, naturally. So, scientific truth is fine, but there's always a chance that another experiment might obliterate it. Then there's mathematical truth, and once proved, it remains so forever. It's absolute. Ezra… he's more about scientific truth, there's always more than enough place for doubt, but Crowley, oh he proves his love mathematically, and there's nothing anyone can do about it, even Ezra, so what Crowley is doing is turning Ezra from a scientist into a mathematician. Mathematics is more abstract, therefore it allows for unknown worlds, new horizons and most importantly, for eternity. Crowley wouldn't settle for anything else, you see, and Ezra would never think there's an option other than the one he has spent his entire life with. 

And I know, I do, you must have come here for some real action, not for philosophical discussions of poor quality, but that's me. I don't write what I want to read (I'm all for real action), but as it happens I want a witty chat with the author more times than not, so how am I doing?

Also, did you ever try to distract someone from real action with philosophy? Asking for a friend. Also, I firmly believe that a challenging conversation is just as arousing as all the right moves in all the right places. And did I mention that this is why winged Cupid is painted blind? Must have. Bloody Shakespeare. I'm quite sure that a sneeze is a Shakespeare quote as well.

***

So, there they are, as the night is dark and moonless and Ezra begins his routine descend into melancholy.

"This whole… this murder. It's…" Mumbles Ezra caressing Crowley's shoulder. Crowley says something into the crook of Ezra's neck.

"Darling, your vibrations are delightful but meaningless in case you wanted to tell something to me."

"Smug love of my idiotic life... I said I know what you mean."

"Who would have done such a thing?"

"Well…" Crowley's voice tries escaping into Ezra's skin but Ezra somehow manages to get Crowley to raise his head and look him in the eye. "No way, dearest, no, please."

"You think it was me?"

"How dare you?.. Although of course I deserved that… No, I think… I don't want you near anything that terrifying."

"Should I tell you, angel?"

"You should have told the inspector."

"That would ruin Shadwell's intent. Michael killed him."

"No! Stop it!"

"She didn't plan to. Remember the day he showed up clean and with money? He asked for a knife, he was going to order roast beef… she got so angry, grabbed a knife from a pile I had just finished cleaning and counting and… rather unfortunately stuck it into Shadwell."

"And he just accepted it?"

"Angel, you are so loved, so treasured. He came here because he missed you, I wasn't the same, never could have been… As far as Shadwell was concerned, Michael was your partner, and he didn't want any harm to come to you. He took the knife. I discovered it when I had to count and clean cutlery again. Shadwell must have hidden it somewhere in his cave. He never wanted you to suffer for his sake. He couldn't know about us."

"So… it's my fault he didn't seek help… No, dearest, it's impossible, it can't be."

"I'm rather afraid it can, angel. That's why Michael was so eager to bring the inspector to us, and I didn't want to tell him anything, because well, Shadwell had given his life to spare your happiness… Angel, don't blame yourself. He loved you, you were the best thing that happened to him in a while. Maybe, in his entire life."

"How am I supposed to live with it?"

"You are supposed to live happily. I'll see to it."

"I don't doubt you, dearest."

"Good. Now, let the emperor return to the city in your chest, would you?" Crowley settled back on Ezra's shoulder. "And don't even think of doing anything to Michael." 

***

Ezra is more than a bit of a bastard, and he's protective, he really is, but nobody had ever seen the extent of that protectiveness because Ezra had been just a beautiful shore before the young emperor demanded a city there. Waxing poetic, oh me, how shameless. In short, that young man with golden eyes and copper hair, that young emperor, capricious and blessed beyond measure, he deserves the utmost devotion, especially after Ezra offended him… so, as Crowley is grumpy in their bed when Ezra gets up, as the night is colder and darker, as the celebrations in Alexandria grow louder and wilder, Ezra makes his way to Michael's flat. She's reading, she's uncaringly calm. 

"Knew you'd get tired of that diva sooner or later," she shrugs and even begins to undress. Ezra says what he wants to sooner than he planned because the plain vulgarity of the moment is too much to bear.

"You killed Shadwell. I found the knife. Anything, the slightest thing happens to Crowley because of you, and this knife will find a way to DI Pulsifer. I swear."

Michael is paler than anything you, dear reader, consider the palest.

"I…" she begins. "Are you going to… fire me?"

"No. Someone I cherish asked me for you. I'm so sorry." 

***

This is the one and only moment when Ezra definitely looks like a vengeful angel of some dark intents. He returns to Crowley shameful. 

"I told you… I asked you… oh, angel, what am I to do with you?" Crowley sighs.

"And if you ended up in prison? Having lied to the police, having covered for her?"

"I wouldn't. You wouldn't let me, as it turns out."

"I'm quite ready to be quite more of a bastard for your sake, my love. Now… sleep tight."

"You too, angel. My favourite bastard."

***

And good night to you too. It was fun. It was sad. It was meant to be ale, but turned into Calvados. So… to the world!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are very welcome.


End file.
